


Nunquam Minus Solus Quam Cum Solus

by wintergrey



Series: Vade Mecum [10]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dreams, Family, Friendship, Guilt, Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, PTSD, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 13:29:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1942926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintergrey/pseuds/wintergrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Never less alone than when alone.</i>
</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Knowing this cycle doesn’t make it easier, doesn’t make it stop. Knowing only gives Sam the ability to sit here and go through it. <i>Go on</i>, he tells his mind. <i>Let’s just get this done. Let’s get this done so I can go home</i>. That he’s going back isn’t a question, even if he doesn’t know how he’s going to make it happen.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	Nunquam Minus Solus Quam Cum Solus

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: For the next several instalments, life gets a little bumpy for everyone. Things are hard when everyone in the family is dealing with some kind of trauma. There are bumps and bruises and bruised feelings and some bad words—but lots of love nonetheless. If that kind of thing being unresolved for a few instalments is stressful for you, check back in at _Stet Fortuna Domas: Let the fortune of the house stand_ and catch up.
> 
> * * *

There’s a swath of what’s called ‘lung space’ on the edge of suburbia that divides the sprawl from the manicured green hills and gated streets of wealthier communities. It’s forest and river, a refuge for animals displaced by the encroaching cities. Aptly named, too. Sam comes here to breathe.

A rocky outcropping over a trickle of a stream isn’t comfortable but something about how old it is makes Sam feel safer. It feels as though here he could simply merge with tree and stone and be gone and that would be okay because he’d be part of something that’s been here so long his own lifespan is insignificant. He doesn’t want to disappear but the perspective calms him. Worn stone and fallen trees are proof that everything passes, even this thing trying to eat him alive right now.

Now that the adrenaline rush of the day has passed, Sam is tired to his bones. His skin is coarse with the salt of his dried sweat. He smells like fear and failure. _You’re not failing_ , he tells himself, like he’d tell anyone else, but his mind rejects the message.

The truth washes through his blood with every heartbeat. Weakness is failure. Fear is failure. Helplessness, especially helplessness, is failure. He feels defeated and sullied by being out here at all, driven out of his home, driven away from the man he loves.

Sam fell into his broken places when Steve jumped, fell into his memories of all the times he was too late and not enough, and it’s a struggle to get out again. Even once Sam climbs out of that place, he doesn’t know how he’s going to go home again. He worked so hard to leave the past behind and it found him again, it touched him, and he’s dirty with it. He can’t track that into his home, he can’t let that touch Steve.

Remembering how it felt to think he was over this just makes him feel worse— _how stupid are you, man? You thought you were done?_ God, everyone always wants to think they’re done. Sam can’t blame them, shouldn’t blame himself. How the hell do you want to blame someone for hanging on to the hope that they’re done suffering?

Sam closes his eyes and breathes but his mind plays too many movies for him to relax. He remembers Riley falling. There is a sound of wings breaking that he can’t get out of his head. He remembers Steve falling. He never gets used to it.

He feels selfish. He’s not the one who’s falling. But he’s the one who can’t stop it.

It would be so much easier if he were the one who fell.

Knowing this cycle doesn’t make it easier, doesn’t make it stop. Knowing only gives Sam the ability to sit here and go through it. _Go on_ , he tells his mind. _Let’s just get this done. Let’s get this done so I can go home_. That he’s going back isn’t a question, even if he doesn’t know how he’s going to make it happen.

Sam hangs on to that. He touches the stone under him to remember it’s real. Home is like that. Home is real. Home is waiting. It’ll be there tomorrow, he’ll be here tomorrow, and all he has to do is travel the distance once morning comes. That calms him, like the forest calms him.

When his phone rings, he’s startled and angry at once. The rage comes back with such force that his stomach lurches and his hands shake. _I told him not to call. I told him not to…_ It’s not Steve. The number is Tony’s. Now he’s afraid something’s happened to Steve and the rage is swept away in an icy flood of terror.

“Tony?”

“Hey. Can I, um, talk to you?” Tony sounds hesitant but not upset. Sam wills his slamming heart to slow down.

“Yeah, everything okay?” Sam puts the phone on speaker—no one around to hear it—and relaxes against a mossy stone behind him. He settles the phone on his calves where they cross in front of him.

“In theory. It’s just Pepper’s in Paris and Rhodey’s in Abu Dhabi or something, he can’t tell me, and I’m here and… you’re a therapist, right? Because I think I’m fine, and—”

A metallic voice with a crisp British accent interrupts. “Physically, sir, you’re in peak condition for a man who doesn’t give a damn about his physical health.”

“—shut up, Jarvis. It’s just this whole HYDRA thing and I can’t sleep and—”

“Tony.” Sam closes his eyes for a moment. He’s not even mad, he’s just tired. Can’t be mad at a guy for suffering. “Tomorrow, I’m going to give you the number of a really good therapist near you. Is there anyone else you can call tonight?”

“I guess, maybe Happy, because his girlfriend is on the nightshift.” Sam can almost hear Tony downshifting moods as they talk. That’s good. “I can’t just talk to you? Because Happy is, well, not qualified.”

“If he’s your friend, he’s qualified. I’m not your therapist, Tony. I met you once and you’re a great guy, but I’m not your therapist or even your friend yet. I know you have people who love you and if Happy’s your friend he’ll come hang out with you until morning. If you think you’re not safe, you need to call nine-one-one for help.” Sam puts it out there gently. “I know this shit is hard, but you can’t call me like this.”

“I guess, yeah. Sorry, I just…” Tony trails off. “Sorry, I’m fucking up here. I just, I don’t know who to call. I don’t want to upset Pepper, I don’t want her to know. And Rhodey has his job. And I’m just. I’m just here. And it doesn’t fucking stop, it never stops, nothing works. I thought—I guess I thought you’d know how. How to make it stop.”

“I know how you’re feeling, man. Call Happy. Take your meds if you’ve got ‘em. Call the therapist in the morning.” All advice Sam should be taking himself. “Can we have an honesty moment here?”

“Yeah, honesty’s good. Or so they tell me.” Tony laughs a little. That’s a good sign.

“I’m sleeping in a park tonight because I was gonna lose my shit at the person I love most in the world and I couldn’t be around him—I didn’t think he’d be safe. We’d be safe.” Sam’s voice wavers. “He scared the hell out of me and it fucked me up, brought too much back. Wasn’t his fault. So I’m out here alone in the dark because it’s the only place it feels right to be.”

Tony’s quiet for a little while. Then, “Can I do anything for you? Like I can call a hotel near you, get you a room. I could send a car. Helicopter. Whatever you want.”

“No, it’s… I can’t be inside right now. Roof. Bed. I can’t breathe. And I feel too guilty, it’s too much. Somewhere out there is my best friend. In the mountains, under the stars. It gets cold at night up there. We never found him, never had time to try.” Sam runs his shaking hands over his face and his palms come away wet. “And I can’t, some nights I can’t lie in a bed and be safe and warm because he’s alone and cold and I don’t know where he is and I can’t get there.”

“Christ, Sam.” Tony sounds like he’s praying, not swearing. “I’m sorry.”

“So you get why I can’t really help you out right now. I got office hours for being okay and the rest of the time… a guy can be happy and still just barely making it at once. It’s a thin line.”

“I guess we’re both on the wrong side of it tonight.” Tony exhales slowly. “Is it shitty that makes me feel better?”

“Nah, man.” Sam wipes his face on his sleeve. “I get it. I’m kind of glad you called.”

“I’m gonna call Happy and tell him to get his ass over here but you call me back if you need anything,” Tony says firmly. “Jarvis never sleeps. And Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“You want help to find your friend, you tell me. Just say the word. We will find him and bring him home.” Now Tony sounds more like himself, or at least like the guy Sam sees in interviews on tv. “I have time. I’ve got nothing but time lately. Just text me, call me, tell me to do it. We can do it together. It will get done, I swear.”  
  
“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. Sam can’t imagine owing Tony anything that would make him hesitate to agree. He manages to get out four of the hardest words in the English language. “Yes, I want help.”

“We’ll talk. We can do this thing.” Tony’s tone is pure determination. “Get some sleep, don’t get eaten by anything.”

“This is suburbia, Tony.”

“Yeah, have you met suburbanites? They’re practically zombies.”

“Goodnight, Tony.”

Sam hangs up on him and sits there a long moment, just breathing. Then he texts Steve.

_I’m okay. You know what I mean. Try again tomorrow night?_

_I love you._ The message is there just seconds later. _Be safe. Come home when you can._

 _Get sleep_ , Sam texts. _I’m still here. Just on the other end of the line._

It’s warm and clear tonight. When Sam looks up, he can see the faded pinpricks of stars fighting their way through the light pollution over the city. The longer he’s here, the more of his pain and rage and fear are absorbed into the forest and the earth and the sky. He doesn’t blame himself—he does, but he tries not to—for feeling those things. He just doesn’t want to unleash them on the people he loves. He can leave them here and then go back to work on what woke them this time.

Sam sleeps, eventually. Actually sleeps. He dreams about Riley for a while, of hot nights and bad beer and the sweetness of their friendship. Just friends. He’d never wanted more. Some things about Tony remind him of Riley: stupidass sweeping noble gestures and mind like a whirlwind and too much alcohol, too much everything, dial set to ten on everything he did.

In Sam’s dreams, Riley has his feet up on the table, chair tipped back on two legs in spite of how it’s creaking. “You’re an idiot,” he tells Sam.

“What is it this time?” Maybe it’s because Sam’s writing out a report when he could be drinking. Riley hates to drink alone. “I’m almost done, if you’d stop interrupting me.”

“Worrying about me when you have your man at home to take care of.” Riley thumps forward and just about fucks it up, what with getting his long legs out of the way, but he recovers at the last minute to put his beer down carefully in front of him. “You got someone you love, Sam. And you’re out here in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere while he’s home alone.”

“You don’t…” Sam’s hot all over. Riley doesn’t know about that. About him. And Riley can’t know about Steve. “I’m not…”

“Fuck you. You are, too. It’s okay.” Riley takes a drink of his beer. “I knew. And I’m dead now, so I can know whatever the hell I want. Go home, Sam.”

“I gotta get this thing done.” Sam goes back to writing his report. Work needs doing and Riley’s always fucking around. “Can’t get settled until I find you.”

“When you do. When you’re done.” Riley taps the paper in front of Sam so he has to stop writing. “You get married or whatever it is works for you guys. You hear me?”

“I hear you.” In his dreams, Sam is writing down the report from the night Riley got killed. He can still read it sometimes when he closes his eyes.

“Sam.” Riley’s tone is sharp enough that Sam looks up into his familiar face. “I mean it. You get settled, you be happy. House, dog, all that shit. Kids, even. You’re that kind of guy. You do that and maybe I can get some sleep.” He kicks back again; his feet landing on the table make Sam’s pen jump as always. “Can’t sleep knowing you’re not okay.”

Sam startles awake too soon. He’s not done talking to Riley. Things he needs to say, things Riley knew but saying them—saying them is a different magic. The light that comes before dawn is filtering through the canopy, turning things grey and pearly. Sam’s eyes are gritty, his body stiff. He feels centuries old when he moves but at least he slept.

Strange to sleep so well when it’s just him out here by himself. It’s not safe to be out here alone and it’s hard enough for Sam to sleep when he’s safe. He's got the strangest certainty that he’s being watched. No, watched over. As his focus sharpens with waking, he finally sees across the little stream and up the hill beyond.

There’s why. The faint predawn light shimmers on Bucky’s silver arm. Sam can’t see his expression in the shadows of his hair but his body is calm. When Bucky moves, pulling his jacket on and loping downhill, he’s smooth like a cat. He follows the stream a little way down toward the park by the suburbs, then stops to look back at Sam. An invitation to follow, like a cat.

“I’m coming.” Sam unfolds himself, checks for his water and his phone as he follows, sliding in the scree above the stream, then hopping it to walk on Bucky’s side. “You look better today.”

“Feel better.” Bucky slows down so Sam can catch up. “You?”

“Getting there.” Sam falls in beside him. There’s a synchronicity to moving with other soldiers that you never lose, no matter how many decades there are between you. It feels good.

“You going home?” Bucky is visible only in profile, his eyes are fixed ahead on the distant meeting place of stream and river. His elf-locked hair swings aside enough that Sam can read the tension at the corner of his eye and mouth.

“Tonight.” Sam needs to try, even if it feels insurmountable. “I should.”

“Steve understands,” Bucky says, as though this is a universal constant. “He’ll wait.”

“I know.” Sam pulls out his water bottle to drink. Dehydration sneaks up, especially when he’s in and out of his own body the way he has been. “He shouldn’t have to wait. He deserves better.”

“Maybe. But we’re what he gets, aren’t we?”

“Guess we are.” That’s good. Sam feels something—hopeful?—to have those lines drawn between them, between him and Bucky and Steve. The ties are there. They just need mending. Drawing tight. So Bucky can come home. So they can all be home.  



End file.
